The Paths Not Taken
by Sakura Tsukikage
Summary: The beginning of a story-in all the ways it might have begun.  This series consists of short fics set toward the beginning of the game, exploring each origin's effect on the Warden.
1. Cousland

_Author's Note:_ The beginning of a story-the ways it could have been. Uses my personal Warden characters for each Origin and in some ways was an exercise in developing them. The series will include spoilers for all the origins. This first story is based on the human noble origin.

_Disclaimer:_ The characters, concepts, and storyline herein all belong to BioWare and the associated individuals and companies, not to me in any way, except for the input of my own interpretation and characterization of the PC. I make no claims on ownership of any copyrighted material, or characters and concepts that don't belong to me.

**Cousland**

One of Siobhan Cousland's first memories was of trying to find her father and failing, until finally she'd found him in the kennels. He hadn't told her to go away, but his face had been grave as he stroked the head of a mabari lying on its side and panting with effort. She'd knelt by the dog's side and stroked her belly, asking her father what was wrong. He'd explained that the dog had taken a fall and broken a great many bones, and that she would have to be put down, then asked her if she wanted to go back into the keep, maybe to play with her brother, when she'd jerked back, horrified.

"But, Father," she'd said, "can't we heal her? Can't we do anything?"

"Sometimes, pup," he'd replied, heavily, "there's nothing more we can do, and it's our duty to know when that is, to make that decision." They'd already tried healing, he explained, and they were afraid more would simply prolong the hound's agony. Siobhan had asked, then, why her father, the teryn himself, had taken upon himself to end the life of one of his favorite hounds. Surely someone else could have borne the unpleasant duty instead.

"It's the teryn's job to make the decisions, and it was I who made this one," he'd told her. "It's my responsibility to see it through."

Siobhan had been perhaps five years old, but she still remembered those words, the expression on her father's face, grave and earnest, as he'd said them. She hadn't gone back to find Fergus. She'd stayed and watched, holding the dog's head on her lap, even though it made her cry, and afterward, her father had taken her shoulders in both hands and told her that she was a fierce, brave girl, that she had the heart of a mabari and the spirit of a Cousland, and that he couldn't ask for a finer daughter.

Siobhan had known ever since that day that to carry that name meant responsibility, even if she wasn't the heir, like Fergus. Maker knew she hadn't always been a perfect daughter—far from it, in fact. Her preference for practicing skill at arms until she was sweaty over fine gowns gave her mother headaches, she let her own hound run amok and torment her old nurse, heckled her brother until he retaliated so that their playful spats were a matter of renown, and was, as her father often lamented, hardly hiding his pride, too headstrong to discipline. She would rather roll about on the floor wrestling her mabari than discuss the new Orlesian silks with her brother's bride, and had once made Bann Frida cry by telling her exactly what she thought of her when asked. But Siobhan had always done her best to be a worthy daughter to her parents, and despite all the grief she gave her brother, a good sister, as well. She'd studied her family's history and the duties of a teryn or teryna, and eventually had learned than when it came to convincing people to your point of view, honesty, as her father had told her after the Frida incident, trying to hide his chuckles as he did, was not always the best policy. She took the advice to heart and practiced her diplomatic skills on Nan, Mother Mallol, old Aldous, and anyone else who would give her a chance, and had soon progressed to her father's knights and her own parents, with more luck begging snacks from the cook than anyone but her own dog to show for it.

Siobhan had always hated feeling helpless, and she had never felt so helpless in her life as she did when she and her mother found her father bleeding his life out onto the stones of the cellar floor, and in that moment, Siobhan would have gutted Howe and watched him die with pleasure if he'd stood before her. She wanted to rage and cry and beg her father not to leave them, but she knew that none of those things would be what her father wanted her to do. He would want her to remember her responsibility, so she tried to push back her emotions, tried to be strong.

She didn't have much success—she could feel her tears on her face—but she couldn't scream her anguish aloud in front of the Grey Warden Duncan, wouldn't shame her parents now, in their last moments, so she choked down her feelings and looked her father in the eyes as she said goodbye, even as tears ran down her cheeks and dripped off her nose and jaw.

"Be brave, pup," her father said, and she'd remembered that day in the stables so long ago, remembered learning of responsibility and loss for the first time, and vowed that she would never let it be forgotten what it meant to be a Cousland, no matter what happened, Grey Warden or no. _Sometimes, pup_, he had said all those years ago, _there's nothing more we can do, and it's our responsibility to know when that is, to make that decision_.

This was her father's decision. His last decision. So for now, she would follow Duncan and become a Grey Warden, she would do it for her father and mother and Oriana and Oren and Ser Gilmore and all the others, for the Couslands, for Ferelden, but she wouldn't forget, and she would never let Howe get away with what he had done to her family.

"I'll never forget you, Father, Mother," Siobhan had said through her tears. "I love you both so much."

She'd hugged her mother goodbye, and had wanted to shut her eyes and stay in that familiar childhood embrace forever, never open her eyes and return to the real world where the scent of her home burning and her father's blood hung heavy in the air around her, but she couldn't, Duncan was waiting. So she said her farewells and followed him to become a Grey Warden without looking back.

She hadn't been able to protect her family, but she would protect Ferelden. And no matter what, she would do the name of Cousland proud.


	2. Mahariel

_Author's Note:_ The beginning of a story-the ways it could have been. Uses my personal Warden characters for each Origin and in some ways was an exercise in developing them. The series will include spoilers for all the origins. This story is based on the Dalish elf origin.

_Disclaimer:_ The characters, concepts, and storyline herein all belong to BioWare and the associated individuals and companies, not to me in any way, except for the input of my own interpretation and characterization of the PC. I make no claims on ownership of any copyrighted material, or characters and concepts that don't belong to me.

**Mahariel**

He'd always known what it was to travel, of course, all Dalish did, but with the creaking of aravels in the breeze, the scent of halla and the company of his clan brothers and sisters all around him, knowing that whatever happened, to any of them, he would still be a part of his family and clan. Not that he had ever expected anything to happen, especially not like this. And he still was a part of the clan, Arelan supposed—in his heart and theirs, he knew he always would be. But from what this Grey Warden, Duncan, had said, Arelan would never go back, and every step away from the Brecilian Forest seemed to be another mile between him and the life he'd always known. He would never see them again, any of them.

It was still hard for him to believe. He had never thought about it much, he supposed. He'd done his best to be a part of the clan, of course, to give back to them in all the ways he was meant to, though he was forever getting scolded for some reckless escapade he'd gotten up to, more often than not with Tamlen, but he'd never thought what it would mean to be without them.

Creators, Tamlen, he still couldn't believe he was gone—after all, they'd been friends every since childhood, when Arelan had outshot him in archery training and been a snotty little arse about it, and they'd proceeded to get into a fistfight. The memory scolding they'd gotten from the Keeper and Hahren Paivel after that made him grin wryly to himself—

Thinking about them, all of them, Tamlen too, just brought the truth back to him with ever more finality—he'd never see any of them again. Arelan knew it was his duty to go and fight the Blight, he did. And he didn't want to seem childish, but he couldn't help casting one more glance over his shoulder, back at the forest.

He could hardly smell the familiar scents of forest loam and green leaves any longer, only the dust of the road, the metal and oiled leather of his and Duncan's armor. It was probably stupid to feel such a sense of loss over that. In fact, he was pretty certain it was. He touched the necklace he wore around his neck, the one Ashalle had said had belonged to his mother.

He was acting like a child, and he wasn't a child, not any longer. He was going to be a Grey Warden, after all. It was time to stop acting like one, not the reckless young hunter he had a reputation for being in his clan. They were counting on him to make them proud, to show these shemlen what being Dalish truly meant.

_We are the Dalish: keepers of the lost lore, walkers of the lonely path. We are the last of the elvhen. Never again shall we submit._

Arelan had always taken the Oath of the Dales seriously, at least. However Paivel had scolded him for his antics the rest of the time, Arelan had always stilled and listened whenever he talked of the responsibilities a Dalish elf held to the rest of the clan. He'd never wanted to shame them—he'd always wanted to live up to what they expected of him. It was just . . . he'd never thought anything like this would happen. Life traveling with the Dalish was dangerous, of course, it wasn't that—he supposed he'd just never really thought that something like this _could_ happen, that his life could change so quickly, just like that, and he'd have to leave, never be able to go home again . . . . At least if he died, he'd expected to do it with his clan around him, so they could bury him and say the ancient words.

Mythal protect him, he missed them already.

He supposed it was his own fault, in a way. Getting sick with the Taint and having to join the Grey Wardens and all of it. He'd gone eagerly along with Tamlen's plan to investigate the cave, after all. He hadn't pulled him back from the mirror or even tried to dissuade him from investigating, not really. Hahren Paivel had always said that his and Tamlen's escapades would get them in a hole too deep for them to dig themselves out of one day, and of course he'd been right. _Ah, Tamlen, lethallin, I never meant for this to happen—I'm sorry, I should have stopped you, should have done _something—

Arelan sighed and fixed his eyes on Duncan's back. His head came up just about to the man's shoulders—shems were always so big, and the Grey Warden wasn't by any means an unimpressive example, either.

The Grey Warden's voice surprised him into reaching reflexively for his bow when he spoke. "The Oath of the Dales?" he said.

Arelan swallowed his surprise. "Um," he said intelligently.

"What you were murmuring to yourself just now?" Duncan said.

"Oh." Arelan thought about that for a moment, then decided there was probably no harm in confirming it. Clearly Duncan already knew it, if he could recognize Arelan's distracted mumbles, and the Keeper had trusted this man, shemlen or not, enough to take his advice, enough to send Arelan away with him. "Yes," he said, and then felt as if that required a bit more explanation. "I was . . . reminding myself. Going into shemlen lands for the first time, and all that."

"Yes," Duncan agreed. "Though, just a suggestion, my friend. Calling humans shemlen at all times is probably not the best way to make friends."

Arelan stared at him for a moment, before he realized that Duncan was smiling slightly behind his beard. Was he . . . teasing him? The realization surprised an answering smile out of him, however small and unwilling. "Human lands, then," he said. "Or Ferelden, if you insist."

"I know little enough of the Dalish and their ways," Duncan said, "but I know that your clan will not forget you."

Arelan swallowed quickly at that and looked away. "And I will not forget them," he said, and repeated it to himself, again, a silent vow. "Nor what it is to be Dalish."

"And we would not expect you to," Duncan said after a moment of silence and their footsteps on the road had passed between them. "As long as you are willing to learn what it is to be a Grey Warden, as well."

And Arelan, to his own surprise, thought that he was. A Dalish Grey Warden. That would certainly be something for the humans to remember. Something to make his clan proud.


End file.
